


The Last Straw

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, ambiguous Johnlock, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 21:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Y'all know that I like Johnlock, right? Like, I REALLY like Johnlock?</p><p>So please, don't kill me for this angst-bomb of a fic here. This is a "what John would have done if he were actually a rational human being instead of a glutton for punishment when Sherlock is concerned" story. But since we all know he's secretly fated for lots of Johnlock snuggles I'm gonna call this the AU and my other stuff canon, k? :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Straw

John pulled up short. "So he’s dead?"

Sherlock threw John a _you-can’t-really-be-this-stupid-can-you?_ look. "Of course he’s dead. He blew his own brains out, no one survives that. I just went through the trouble of an overdose to prove it. Moriarty is dead; no question. More importantly - I know what he's going to do next!"

 _Right._ Sherlock was grinning. Smirking, really, all proud of himself for nearly killing himself to prove a bloody point. And suddenly, just like that, John was _done._

Because this really wasn’t new, was it? Sherlock had done the same bloody thing when they’d first met, albeit with less premeditation. Two pills, _probably_ only one of them poisoned. All he’d have needed to do was pocket the one he “chose” and analyze it back at Baker Street. Boom, done. No need to risk his life to impress a serial killer, of all people. If John hadn’t shot when he did . . .

And again, during The Blind Banker. Charging off across the museum after someone they both _knew_ was a trained killer. Leaving John behind. Sherlock’s plan to meet Moriarty at the pool, alone. The whole business with The Woman, lying about her death. Lying about everything, really. Fucking _drugging_ John at Baskerville with an unknown hallucinogen. Sherlock had no lab there; no way to know it wasn’t poison. All following the lure of “it’s for a case.”

It was _always_ “for a case.” And with Sherlock, “the case” always superseded everything else.

Even knowing why Sherlock faked his suicide, knowing that it was a supposedly selfless act . . . John wasn’t so blind as to not see the second motive there. Sherlock didn’t mind risking his life to be right, but even more than that, he wanted to _know._ And if he’d died, let Moriarty kill him for real, he’d have never been able to find out if he’d won. The “suicide” and the hiding and the wild, dangerous adventures all over the world - those were Sherlock gloating in his superiority. Moriarty had died and he didn’t. In Sherlock’s mind, all the trouble was worth it.

When Sherlock came back, then . . . _Fuck._ John closed his eyes as it hit him. He’d thought Sherlock was just awkward, in his own Sherlockian way. Show up, cheers all around, jump right back into how things used to be. Absolutely no realization that John had grieved, truly _grieved,_ for him. For the years of friendship they’d never be able to share, for the relationship that was maybe, possibly on its way to being something more than just friends. When Sherlock died, a part of John had died too.

And if Sherlock had reciprocated, wouldn’t he have understood? Surely he’d have found a way to come back earlier if he’d felt only a _fraction_ of the pain John had. If he truly couldn’t return, he could have at least swallowed his pride and asked Mycroft to check on his old, broken-down ex-flatmate to make sure John wasn’t in danger of crashing and burning now that the central body his world orbited around was extinguished. And then, when he saw how John was suffering, he could have found another way. Would have at least sent word that he was safe. Instead, Sherlock left Mary to pick up the pieces and came back with that smirk on his face.

John glanced back at Mary, standing guard behind him. She was a liar, too, and dangerous, but then apparently John had a thing for danger. And liars.

_Right._

“Good luck, then,” he said aloud. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”

Sherlock’s manic grin slowly disappeared. “John, don’t you want to-”

“No.” It felt freeing, to finally say it. “I can’t . . . I can’t come back to you, Sherlock. To this. I can’t live every day wondering when you’re going to kill yourself for real.”

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. “I was perfectly safe, John. I’ve used the same combination of opiates and stimulants before and you’ve never even noticed. They help me think. I _needed_ them for this.”

John soul felt like it was physically falling out of his body. _Never noticed. Me. Never noticed._ He was a horrible friend and a horrible flatmate and a horrible doctor. _He’s done this before and I never noticed._

“Sherlock . . .” Mary said, quiet but stern. She didn’t add to it, though. She didn’t need to - they all knew what was being said.

“You don’t . . .” John had to stop, take a breath to get the words out. “You don’t care. But I do. And I just - I can’t anymore. You know what I’ve gone through with Harry and her addiction, what I still go through. The fact that you can’t even . . .” He shook his head. “I can deal with the fact that you destroy my things in the name of The Work. Sometimes just in the name of ‘science.’ And I get mad, and I yell, and then I get over it because none of those things are important compared to _you._ Because _you_ were the most important thing in my world. And you don’t - you don’t care enough about me to protect the thing I loved the most. It’s all a game to you, is it?”

Sherlock was standing very still, watching John warily. John could literally see the moment at which Sherlock decided on which strategy would be most advantageous to manipulate him with. “I do care,” he said. Eyes wide, head up. Trying to appear emotionally vulnerable without actually having to go to the effort of actually feeling it. “I murdered a man last week because he would have hurt you and Mary. I _jumped off a building_ for you, to save your life. How can you say I don’t care?”

 _That’s just it, though._ “You made me watch.” Made John relive that day in his nightmares for _years_ afterward, until Mary came along and helped him finally grieve in a way that wouldn’t leave him with a hole in his temple and his Sig Sauer in a pool of blood on the floor. Mary, who stood by him even when Sherlock came back and John’s world turned upside-down. Mary, who was still standing quietly behind him. Letting him make the choice.

John turned his back on Sherlock and returned to his wife.

“Really, John?” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. “You’ll stagnate within six months. A baby and a boring job in some tiny rural surgery won’t give you the adventure you crave. You know you can’t live without it.”

“I know.” John managed a weak smile for Mary, grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Luckily for me my wife is also a retired assassin. Adventure will find us, I’m sure.”

Mary returned the smile.

“But Moriarty!”

John didn’t bother to answer. Finally, the choice was clear. 

“Good luck, Sherlock. Don’t bother to call.”

And he took Mary home.


End file.
